Can You Hear
by hunter-strain13
Summary: Words like poison that drag at the veins and a sight that curdles even the most solid of souls. A being like that should never become a being like this. A sad day at Whipstaff.


**Disclaimer: Casper is not mine. I write for fun, not profit.**

**So this is about to be a potentially sad fic. This was written ages ago in a fit of depression after I broke up with my fiance. Please forgive me for any tears or massive amounts of ice cream eating this may induce. Uhm, ok my chickadees, read on.**

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The Manor was silent that night. The cobwebs seemed paler than usual and the paintings that lined the halls might as well have been vacant and dim. The wind didn't even seem to blow through the cracks and old panels in its usual way. That would have livened the place up a bit. To say that Whipstaff had seen better days, even in its apparent state of disarray, would be an understatement.

In one of the large windows that decorated the upper floors of the Manor, a figure could be seen, hovering just barely above the sill. To an outsider, the figure appeared as a shade, no more than a silver wisp floating in lonely repose without purpose or intent of any kind. To a trained eye, however, it might appear a bit differently.

Though the shape did hold a silver and transparent quality to it, its most noticeable feature was its intense eyes. They were glazed over at that moment, but that did not subtract from the stunning shade of purple they were. The eyes, staring out from the gaunt face, were devoid of emotion. The owner of the eyes, a spirit known for its dark humor and quick temper, stared blankly out into the mist that swirled around the stone garden.

Stretch McFadden, eldest of three, let a short sigh escape him. He was unsure of why he felt so melancholy that day, but he had been unable to shake the feeling. It had settled deep in his chest, in the place his heart should be, and it dragged him down as if gravity had increased for him and only got worse as the day slid on. Now, in the chill of early evening, the ghost felt almost ill and chose to isolate himself from the other residents of the Manor. His brothers seemed in a similar state of unrest as him, though they had still managed to perk themselves up with a game of Boo Ball. He could hear them downstairs, chuckling quietly so as not to disturb him. The thin ghost sighed again and continued to stare out the window.

The fog had become stagnant close to an hour ago and the darkening blue of the sky reflected in it. Stretch could still see the dead leaves that lay curled and forgotten all over the courtyard, abandoned by the gnarled hands of the old oak nearby. Everything seemed cold to him and he knew it wasn't just the death chill that clung to him and his brothers. He surprised himself as he actually shivered and he wrapped his slender arms around his torso in an instinctual need to warm himself. An owl quietly called outside the window, but did not make itself visible.

It was then that Stretch noticed the quiet in the Manor. His brothers had gone silent, whether from boredom or the seemingly inescapable depression he didn't know. He turned his wispish head ever so slightly, trying to hear them, but quickly lost interest and returned his gaze to the window. After a moment or two, a small creak came from behind him. This time, he did not bother to look. His head now felt too heavy to move. The voice that followed soon after was soft and low and he almost didn't catch it the first time.

"Uncle Stretch?" It was Casper. The little ghost hovered in the doorway, his off white complexion seeming paler than usual. The aforementioned uncle nodded once and spoke, though he had to find his voice for a moment before doing so.

"Hey, Short Sheet." He whispered, not bothering to hide the sadness in his tone. Casper waited a long while before speaking again and, when he did, his voice was impossibly quiet.

"She's...she's outside again." Stretch looked over, then, and stared at his nephew. The boy seemed uneasy and he almost faded out of view for a moment. The ghost in the window sighed and floated slowly to the little one, placing a hand on his round head.

"I know, Cas. Go to yer room." The ghost boy did as he was told and drifted away, vanishing just before the door.

Stretch phased through the floor and into the den where he knew his brothers to be. It was painfully quiet once more and he had to look around before he found them. The two ghosts, one small and the other large, had their faces to the window, stock still and utterly silent. They didn't even budge as their older brother came to sit behind them.

"Stretch..." Stinkie muttered and his voice was thick with hidden emotion.

"It's her." Fatso finished, finally moving to regard his brother.

To his credit, Stretch did not lash out or retort in a mocking way to the statement. He merely moved forward to glance outside. On the bottom level of the Manor, he could clearly see the mist dancing just above the ground and the solitary stone that jutted out from the ground. It was smooth and simple and there was a single line on the stone, but the words were faded and hard to read. He knew what they said and those words would never leave his mind, not in all his long years left wandering the earth. As they looked on, a pocket of fog began to shift, as if something or someone moved it. All pairs of eyes moved to look and they found their subject soon enough.

A shape took form out of the cold pale night and it appeared to be made of the mist itself. It was hard to make out any details at first as it was only a ragged robed figure, but then it materialized and took form. There were hands, long fingered and thin, and then there was hair. It was long and dark as pitch and seemed to float about on an invisible current. The robe became a long trailing dress and it seemed to be spun of webs and ice. Lastly, the face was revealed and it nearly broke the onlookers' resolve.

The cheekbones, high and smooth, were unmistakable. The eyes, once gleaming and full of life, were now sorrowful and cold. Her full lips were open in a silent wail and the specter met the gazes of the three ghosts.

It was Kat.

Stretch nearly collapsed as he looked upon her frightful and depressing state. The girl was so pale and lonesome out in the garden, her visage terrible and harsh. Stinkie choked on a sob and turned away and his youngest brother moved to comfort him. The eldest was unable to remove his eyes from the form out in the night. She looked at him and he looked back. The melancholy feeling dragged even harder in his heart and he placed a hand on his chest, fighting the bile that threatened to rise.

The figure that was Kat began to walk, her steps slow, and everywhere she stepped, frost spilled from her heels to lay upon the ground. Her mouth, still open, began to pour forth a wretched sound that could only be described as outright anguish. It made a dying cat or nails on a chalkboard sound like an opera. It was near torture to hear and it only grew louder as she moved. Then, the screaming cry raised in pitch and began to warble, the vibrato making the window pane shudder. Stretch realized, painfully, that she was singing.

Her ruined voice was accompanied by the lifting of her hands, as if she was moving to embrace someone, but no one came. She walked like this, past the stone, and into the night, a trail of silver frost glowing in the dying light behind her. Kat's eyes never left Stretch's own while she did this. It was as if she recognized him but could do nothing to lay his pain to rest nor speak to him. She was stuck, unable to do anything besides mourn, and he knew it. As the sad sound finally faded, the ghost relaxed his shoulders into a slump and slid down the wall to bury his face in his hands.

Then and only then did the ghost allow himself to cry. The sobs came forth like a tide and he didn't bother quieting himself as he began to scream wordlessly. He did so until he felt drained of all emotion. The eldest McFadden sat in that place for hours, unable and unwilling to move. He could still see her face, snow pale and lips as blue as the stormy sea and her eyes. Oh, the eyes, so chilled and so sad that it would have killed him twice over to see them again.

The thin ghost removed himself from the floor, agonizingly slow, and glanced outside once more before returning to his room. His brothers watched him as he mouthed the words carved into the stone that stood, still and alone in the garden. Words that he carved himself:

'Here lies Katherine, the only beauty that was left in this world.'

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**Well yeah that was it. Short and sad. Sorry if it was awful sad or whatever. Review please.**


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